Page 26 of Can't Help Growling in Love
We’re at eye level now that I’m kneeling in front of her, and she regards me seriously, a frown line between her eyebrows.
“I didn’t want to mess up your entire day.” She squeezes the comforter on both sides of her hips, her fingertips digging into the soft fabric. “This can’t be what you had planned for today. You only asked me to visit you at the station.”
I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek, then linger because I can’t pull away. “No, it’s more. I didn’t think I’d ever want to share this space with anyone, but you being here feels completely right.”
She melts against me, leaning on my shoulder. “Okay. Whew. I’d like to stay a while if that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah, June.” I huff out a laugh. “I’m trying really hard not to move too fast, because all I want to do is keep you here and lick you all over to see how you taste. But that sounds like something a serial killer would say, so I’m gonna leave you here now and get breakfast going before you run away from me, screaming.”
I push myself away from the bed and stand. June is flushed, her brown eyes wide, no doubt freaked out by my confession. But…not really? Her caramel scent is sweeter than ever. I groan, shaking my head and backing away from her, toward the door. If I don’t leave now, I’ll make good on my suggestion and we’ll stay right here. She needs food first, though, and I need to calm down.
“Come to the kitchen when you’re done,” I rasp, grabbing a dry t-shirt from the dresser to replace my damp one.
She dips her chin in a nod, and just before I slip out through the door, she calls, “I’m not running away, just so you know!”
Chapter
Twelve
JUNE
Asher leaves me in his bedroom, and I blow out a long breath, pushing my hair from my face.
Oof.
My hands are shaking from wanting to run after him and jump him right there, in the hallway. He put the brakes on, though, so I need to rein in my need and get in the shower so I’m not stinking up his place. He said he didn’t mind the smell of my feet, but I suspect he lied. I’d call him out on it, but he gave me the perfect opportunity to avoid the issue—access to his bathroom.
It hits me that he’s showing me an incredible amount of trust by leaving me here alone. I could snoop around at will. I could steal his fancy-looking alarm clock and climb out through the window, disappearing into the night—or early morning, as it is. I could root through his underwear drawer like the stalker I am.
The urge is strong, but I resist, hurrying over to the bathroom instead. It’s surprisingly clean for a single man’s bathroom. I’ve seen some pretty nasty places in my day, but Asher seems to like things tidy, if what I saw of his house is any indication. Atowel hangs on the drying rack next to the radiator. There’s a toothbrush holder with a single toothbrush on the sink and a tube of expensive brand-name toothpaste. An electric razor is plugged into the socket next to the mirror, its tiny light blinking green. I can’t resist the urge to peek into his bathroom cabinet and find a deodorant stick, a pot of hair gel, a pack of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, a spare toothbrush, and a pack of Q-tips.
There’s no cologne to be seen, and I wonder how Asher smells so good all the time if he’s not using any.
I close the cabinet door quietly, embarrassed by my nosiness. But a bathroom can tell a lot about a person, so I don’t really regret this. I’m sure Asher would do the same if he had a chance to snoop through my bathroom. I think of the over-stuffed cabinets at home and cringe, resolving to do a deep-clean this weekend.
I shuck Asher’s hoodie and sweatpants, hanging them on the radiator to dry, then push off my panties and unclip my bra. At the realization that I’m naked in the house of a man I’ve known for about a week, even counting our online correspondence, a shiver goes through me. But not the fearful kind. My nipples pebble, and I have a brief, powerful fantasy of Asher barging in, jumping in the shower with me with his clothes still on, and pinning me to the wall.
So…I guess I trust him, too.
I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
The water pressure in Asher’s shower is delicious, the water hot, and his shower gel smells nice. I’d stay here for an hour, decompressing from work and warming up, but Asher is waiting for me in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. I rinse myself and reach for the towels stacked on a shelf by the shower. They smell like fabric softener and are nicer than mine. I dry myself off then wrap a towel around my head.
It’s then that I realize I could either put on day-old underwear or go without.A knock at the door has me glancing up as I’m debating the issue.
“I left some dry clothes on the bed for you,” Asher calls through the door. “And I’m leaving again, no worries.”
The sound of a door closing confirms his words. I crack the bathroom door open and peer outside. True enough, he’s gone, and a pile of clothes is waiting for me on his bed.
There’s no underwear, obviously, but Asher put out a soft t-shirt that’s been washed many, many times and is likely too small for him, and a fresh pair of sweatpants. I cinch those around my waist so they stay up. I opt out of putting on my underwear, so the fabric slides over my naked skin. A glance at my chest shows that my nipples are still hard, so I put on a sweatshirt, too.
Then I follow the smells of cooking breakfast back into the main area of the house. I was too distracted by the view earlier to really note much about the room, but it’s spacious and bright despite the gloomy weather. Two thirds of the space is taken up by the living room part. There’s a large, comfortable-looking gray couch and a neat TV-and-gaming-system console.
I turn right to find Asher standing in the kitchen, his bottom half hidden by the kitchen island. There’s a dining table and a corner kitchen, fully kitted out with modern appliances. A basket of fruit stands on the island, the bright oranges and yellows of the citrus a nice brightening touch in contrast with the cream kitchen cabinets and the butcher block countertops. There’s even a potted basil plant on the windowsill and a mason jar full of pens and paper clips.
“Definitely not a serial killer’s lair,” I quip, walking over to peek into the cast-iron pan that’s sizzling on the large gas stove.
Asher sends me a sideways grin and motions at the toaster. “Grab the toast, will you? How do you like your eggs?”
